


hesitancy

by scrubbadub



Category: South Park
Genre: M/M, Supernatural Elements, Vampires, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:07:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28574247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrubbadub/pseuds/scrubbadub
Summary: Kenny's ill-timed attempts at trickery result in an unfortunate accident, leaving Gregory and Stan in a... strange situation, to say the least.
Relationships: Gregory of Yardale/Stan Marsh, Kyle Broflovski/Leopold "Butters" Stotch
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

"I do not want to go if there will be drunkards abound."

They’re getting ready. Stan’s nearly beyond himself with excitement, and he has to set his phone down on the table, forcing himself to ignore the next text Kyle’s sending. He’s asking when they’re going to arrive. Hopefully _soon_ , if he has any say about it. The prospect of going out again to live his best years on a night that only comes once a year, well, that’s no small thing, or so he’d like to think. He's old enough to know that Halloween parties are gonna have alcohol - they're in high school. It's not like he's gonna go out of his way to be boring. Besides, if it's there, what's the point in ignoring it?

Gregory turns his head sideways to look away. Stan sighs, turning to look back over at him before saying, "Come on, dude. I already put on a whole bunch of makeup for this, so did you, the least we can do is go."

"Perhaps I want to hand out candy. Perhaps I want to go to a party where the music will not rattle my eardrums senseless." The way Gregory’s talking makes Stan roll his eyes. They have had this argument at _least_ seven times over the course of the day, and it’s just rehashing old sentiments at this point. It’s _stupid._ Gregory’s bitching while blending blush on his cheeks, though, so he has to give the guy credit for something. Just… not being reasonable is one of the discredits.

“You like loud music,” Stan starts back up, grabbing one of the tiny mascara brushes so he can touch back up on his own eyeliner. “And besides, we’ve talked about this. We set out a bowl for the little kids. We’re too young to be handing out candy.”

Gregory just lets out a snort of derision and mumbles something snide and condescending under his breath, and Stan frowns. At least, he assumes it’s condescending. Half of the shit Gregory says tends to end up coming out like that. It comes off as snide while he’s holding that hairbrush like that, anyways.

Stan’s gone and dressed himself up as a werewolf this year, pinned a little tail to his pants and ripped up an old shirt he doesn't really care about, and he thinks he looks pretty good. Gregory is putting on the finishing touches of his vampire makeup in the car, applying fake blood here and there, teasing his hair to get it to look right, etcetera. In the dim light of his beat-up, hand me down car, he looks almost inhuman. In a good way, of course.

Not that he wants to say it out loud.

He and Gregory aren't anything official, not in the social sense of things, but there's an unspoken tension every time they do things. It’s not entirely unpleasant; they're both waiting for the pin to fall, for someone to make the first move. Stan doesn't know if he's brave enough to do that.

He hopes so.

"Don't be a douchebag. We already promised Kenny we'd meet him there, it'd be a dick move to just not go because you, you know… didn't want to deal with, uh. What'd you call them earlier?" Stan inquires. Turning over to the mirror, Stan takes a pause from his mascara to check there’s no smudges. Years of sneaking makeup into the house and doing his own goth mock makeup job have prepared him for this.

"A prospective sea of drunk toddlers?" Gregory quips back quickly. It’s hard to see him properly in the dim light of the truck, but it’s fine. Stan knows he should have replaced the bulb before this. It was in the back of his mind, but it’s not an important thing right now, so he puts it back in the folder of things he can think about later.

Stan grins before replying, "Yeah." That does make him chuckle a little bit. He probably counts underneath that blanket term. "... Isn't that from a John Mulaney bit?"

Gregory shoots back quickly with an "unimportant." He can see Gregory's smirk, so he knows he's right. The telltale tap of his foot on the bottom floor of the car tips him off, though, and Stan grins before speaking. "One could say you were almost impressed." That earns a chuckle out of him and a snarky, quiet 'wow', drawn-out and exaggerated. He does wonder what that last bit was referencing. He doesn’t remember the full bit, so he could have missed that part. If not, he won’t point it out.

He's stupid. Gregory's stupid. It's… endearing, sort of.

"Don't judge me, Stanley, you know better than I do that I am right. The moment we enter that house it shall be a swamp of unearthly teenage hormones, alcohol, and shoddily constructed costumes. If we happen to be lucky, we might avoid the vomit on the way out." Snapping his makeup case closed, he watches Gregory stuff it into the front compartment of the car after his shitty little remark, reaching over past him to reach.

He checks his fake teeth to make sure they're on correctly. "If you're that pissy about it, I'll take you out to Denny's afterward. God."

A sly grin and Gregory turns to him, quipping back with ease, "Is that a date, Stanley?"

That makes him pause. Face flushing, he attempts to backtrack. "No, look, it's not- I meant it in a bro way! You know! Like bros, bros going to Denny's, because one bro's being a baby about going to a Halloween party!"

"Bros. Of course, how could I be so silly." Gregory sounds amused, but there’s a side glance to the mirror that he notices, and the fun energy simmers down somewhat. Mild disappointment casts itself in the smile lines on his face. It makes him regret backtracking. Goddamn it.

“Yeah. Um. Bros.” He brushes a lock of his hair out of his face to try and hide his own disappointment. Deflection is his strong suit- just, you know, when he’s sober.

Finally, Gregory sets the little mascara pencil down and stuffs the rest of his makeup palette into his bag, then the pencil, and brushes his hair out of his face, sighing. “Bros. Right. Let’s get this show on the road, then, I suppose.”

Grabbing his keys off of the dashboard, he steps out of his car, shutting the door behind it, and Gregory is soon to follow. The moon is mostly obscured by passing clouds, but every so often, as they’d been driving, it’d peeked out.

The music is already going strong from inside Clyde’s house. He can feel the bass running through his body as he walks towards the driveway, but he ignores it, for the most part, and keeps walking. Gregory meanders on behind him, but one glance sent his way makes him hurry on to Stan’s side, hands shoved in his pockets. Stan understands. The guy doesn’t do parties. His whole schtick is, like… revolution, and stuff.

Maybe he just wanted the guy to come around with him to at least one party, though. There’s nothing wrong with that, right?

Right. Yeah.

Stan knocks on the door to Clyde’s house and it’s thrust open mere moments after his hand’s left the drywood. Clyde’s pretty quick. Damn. They’re greeted by said man, red solo cup gripped tight in his left hand, and Clyde cheers at the sight of them both. He’s dressed up as a mummy, and while Stan could probably do without having to see so much of Clyde’s chest, he has to at least give the guy credit for trying to wrap himself in toilet paper. At least he wore pants. He wouldn’t put it past Clyde to try and serenade Bebe or someone else by fucking wrapping himself in nothing _but_ toilet paper.

It’s an entertaining enough idea. He feels a little bad about it, but the sentiment is very easily discarded once he remembers how much of a jagoff Clyde can be most of the time. It’s not like he can read thoughts, so he feels a little more secure in his judgement.

Boisterous, Clyde throws up an arm, finally offering a more formal greeting. “Stan, my man!! You brought the British guy?” He gives a shrug in response.

“Yeah, I mean, he said he’d come along with me when I asked, so you know how it goes.” He bumps fists with Clyde and walks in, Gregory in tow. The music is even louder inside, and he can see several of his friends already milling about, talking amongst themselves. Everyone’s in various states of costume, including Cartman, who he assumes snuck into the party without anyone realizing, and he’s pretty impressed with how put together everyone looks.

Well… mostly. Some of them, he’s not surprised at how good their costumes look. Like Wendy and Kyle, who are dressed up as a monster hunter and a mad scientist.

“The more, the merrier! Drinks are in the kitchen, have some fun, bro! I’m gonna go see where Bebe and Token went, I got a super great joke to tell them! _Whoooo!_ I fucking love Halloween!!” Clyde runs off and he chuckles.

“Well, uh… you wanna go get a drink, Gregory?”

The music is louder inside than it was outside, expectedly, and it’s hard to stick together amidst the crowd. Gregory looks displeased, posture rigid amongst the relaxation of his peers, and he can’t help but wonder why he even agreed to come in the first place if he knew he wasn’t going to enjoy himself. Stan’s already having fun. There’s no shortage of serotonin when the music rattles the sad vibes right from your head. That’s what the internet says, anyways.

Gregory rolls his eyes, hands still shoved into his pockets. “I think I shall pass. I could accompany you, yes, but I would rather not get shitfaced with a bunch of drunkards. I have standards.” Yeah, okay, he’s starting to get on Stan’s nerves. Way to be a fucking fun buzzkill.

“Yeah, sure you do. You hang out with me, how’s that for standards?” Stan says.

He’s met with an intensity very often seen in Gregory's face before he speaks. “The difference is you are worth tenfold more than any of these fools.” There’s a pause as he steps through into the kitchen and looks back at Gregory, face heating up, and he has to clear his throat and turn away to try and push his mind past it. Someone passes them and waves, and Stan saves face by waving back, clearing his throat.

“Uh. Thanks. That. Yeah. Tenfold.” He can see Jimmy and Kenny in the kitchen giving them both the side-eye, along with a few other people doing their own thing, and he feels a little self-conscious about having that kind of reaction in the first place. He’s not fucking gay. Craig and Tweek are gay, not him. It’s fine. It’s just a friendly sentiment. That’s it. Nothing more.

Friends can think other friends are attractive sometimes, after all. It’s totally normal.

He sees Kenny set down a drink and reaches for it, then gets his hand smacked away. “Not yours.” Kenny says.

Stan scowls. “Dude! Don’t fucking smack my hand away, come on.” Gregory narrows his eyes and starts to inspect the drink. 

Voice hushed, Kenny nearly immediately starts on the defense. “It’s for Cartman. Trust me, it’s gonna be really funny. Just-”

Gregory looks up from the drink, face guarded with suspicion. “Did you do something to it?” Kenny looks offended. That’s kind of fucked up to accuse someone of that, but he can see where the conclusion was made. 

“No, what the fuck, I just spit in it, he’s gonna get pissed off.” There’s something that feels off about the way Kenny said that, something evasive, so he takes a look at the drink, too. He can’t see anything wrong with it; when he shoves Kenny’s hand away again to dip a pinky finger in and taste it, it doesn’t taste wrong. Not bitter, nor salty, nothing.

“... you really just spit in it?” Stan inquires. Watching Kenny carefully, Stan looks over at the door.

“Yeah. See, he’s gonna drink it, he’s gonna- oh, come on, man.” Kenny starts, but is cut off as Cartman walks into the kitchen. Kenny crosses his arms and leans back on the counter. Jimmy, who was eavesdropping, chuckles, then turns back to his own conversation.

“Heard you guys talking shit.” Cartman grins sharply after his snide little comment, sizing Stan up. Gregory’s starting to wander off, now that he’s gotten a satisfying answer. Stan isn’t surprised.

Kenny narrows his eyes. “Hey.” 

Stan picks up the drink. Kenny’s giving him a side-eyed glare. He may hate the fucking guy, but he might as well extend a potential olive branch. Starting a fight with Cartman on a night that’s supposed to be enjoyable is not on his agenda of things to do. It _never_ ends well. With that in mind, he turns to look over at him before opening his mouth. “What’s up? Nice costume, by the way. Didn’t take you for the kind of dude to go with a toga.”

“I’m a cupid. Obviously I had to go with the toga. Kyle got super fuckin’ pissed, you should have seen his face. He was like ‘oh my God, Cartman, you can’t just wear a toga in fucking public like that, you better have something underneath that’, and then he got all red in the face, you should have fucking _seen_ it!” There’s a snorting peal of laughter that tears through Cartman, and he will admit, it’s a little funny. It’s a harmless sort of joke, he supposes, compared to some of the shit they’ve done to each other.

Stan asks, “Well, _are_ you wearing anything underneath that?” He takes a sip of the drink. Not bad, even if Kenny throws up his hands in the air in defeat and stomps off to the fridge to grab a different drink.

The talk of costumes makes him self conscious about his own, just a little, and he readjusts his tail. It'd started to droop.

Cartman laughs before continuing. “Duh, I’m not an idiot, Stan, what the fuck. Someone could use that to blackmail me if I’m not careful. You gotta think logistically.” He reaches for Gregory before he can wander too far off and tugs him back, and Cartman sneers his way. “Wow, so gay squared showed up?”

Stan scowls. “Why the fuck do you have to take things there, dude? It’s so unnecessary.” Of course, he’s met with mockery after he tries to defend Gregory, and Gregory rolls his eyes, takes the drink out of his hands, and takes a swig from the cup. Kenny’s staring their way. His face looks like a combination of pissed and terrified. Maybe just frustrated.

“I mean, I’m not wrong, am I, Stan? He just took your drink. That’s, like… two steps away from kissing, and that makes you pretty goddamn gay, both of you,” Cartman quips. “Just saying.” He’s so tired of being called these kinds of things by this fucking guy. He takes a step forward, ready to do something about it, temper sizzling, but Gregory puts a hand on his shoulder. He pauses, then Gregory speaks, eyes soft.

“Not worth it, Stan. Eric here is a sad, sad excuse of a man desperately trying to make himself feel better about his own shortcomings by insulting others. Giving him the reaction he wants will only fuel his fire.” There’s an exclamation from Cartman, an offense taken, but he will admit, Gregory has a good point. He knows this. He knows that’s what Cartman is good at. The dude gets under people’s skin.

Taking the drink back, he slams the rest of it down and reaches for the fridge handle, taking a deep breath. “Whatever. Go harass someone else, Cartman, or next time,” Stan turns to face Cartman, leveling him with a glare before continuing, “there’s not gonna be someone to stop me from kicking your ass.” He means it, too, and he lets his frustration seep into his voice.

Cartman crosses his arms, sputtering, then finally there is a moment of acquiescence. He stomps off towards the cupboards, making a beeline for where Kenny’s drifted off to, whine piercing itself through the air as he retreats. “Whatever, Stan, you’re such a pussy, you’ve been hanging out with, like, the weirdo kids for weeks now and I told you it’d rub off. Right, Kenny? Kennyyyyyy-”

Stan rolls his eyes, then rubs at his face, pulling a beer out of the fridge. He offers it to Gregory, who promptly shakes his head and raises a hand in denial, then stuffs his hands in his pockets. He’s surprised. 

“... you know, you were, uh. Just a little right.” It’s sheepish when Stan blurts the words out, but truthful nonetheless.

There’s a small grin that crawls itself onto Gregory’s face and he speaks. “Was I, now?” He scoffs, then pops open the cap of the Budweiser and takes a sip. 

“Yeah, I mean, I guess, Cartman kind of got the party off to a crappy start. It also sucked that Kenny spat in that drink and I decided to be the bigger person, too. Asshole probably deserved it.” Gregory looks properly disgusted for a moment, then swallows once.

“So your friend spat in the drink you had prior?”

“... yeah? Oh- shit, ha, hahaha-” Stan snorts. Gregory had a sip, didn’t he? “You fuckin’ drank McCormick spit, dude!”

“Disgusting! Vile! I am abhorred, I am violently ill, this is the last straw, Marsh! You think you’re funny!” He’s laughing. Gregory’s just being _dramatic_.

Gregory doesn’t seem to think so. “Come on, don’t give me that look. It’s a little funny.” Stan says.

“It is NOT funny, it is unsanitary, Stan! I do not want to be swallowing somebody else’s spit!! God only knows what has been in that mouth!” He snorts again. “... now, please do not look at me like that, I did NOT mean it to come across that way.”

“Yeah. God only knows.” He goes to hide his grin behind the beer can.

“Stanley-- _ugh._ ” He watches Gregory take a deep breath, then takes another drink of his beer, leaning on the fridge exterior gently. 

“... sorry if I hurt your feelings by laughing.” He’s not, not really, not in the way that counts, but Gregory keeps giving him that _look_ , the kind he gets when he’s sulking, so he might as well try and damage control some. Gregory sighs, then smiles, a little half-smirk, and starts over towards him.

“I think I shall live, now that you decided to offer me an apology.” Gregory laments, though it lacks sincerity. Stan laughs, then quips back.

“Yeah? You gonna live, you big fuckin’ baby?”

“I might not. Might be fatal. I could be genuinely ill,” Gregory begins, then leans himself onto Stan from the side, exerting his body weight onto his shoulder, “falling closer and closer to the doorsteps of death as we know it. Oh, gravity, I can feel it pushing down already, pulling me closer-”

“Come on, get off of me!” He snorts out a half-laugh, trying to push Gregory off. He manages to succeed, watching Gregory stumble back up. They’re laughing.

He finishes off his beer. There’s a pleasant buzz already simmering in the back of his head, floating around, clouding the worst of his anxieties, and he’s not afraid to admit he’s a fan of the feeling. He doesn’t want to get _drunk_ tonight, but if he could stay like this, maybe, get a little more fucked up, ride that line, that’d be nice.

Just… forget how it feels to be a person, for a while, who has things to deal with and terrors to dream about.

Reaching back into the fridge, he grabs one more beer for himself and tosses one towards Gregory, who catches it with relative ease. He watches as he sets it down and continues to drink what he has in his hand. “Suit yourself, bro.”

“I’m no more a bro as you are a chav.”

Stan pauses. “What the fuck is a chav?”

“It’s the equivalent to your phrasing of a ‘bro-dude’, I believe.” Gregory says.

“... so Cartman?” He inquires.

Gregory thinks for a moment, then tips his drink at Stan mid response. “Think Clyde.”

Stan thinks on that as well. “Well, yeah, but he’s loaded, his dad owns a shoe store.”

“Eh. Fair point. T’would go more… who is the group of people in your school who attempt to follow any new trend and are obnoxiously loud about it, then wear fake designer clothing in an attempt to get into a woman’s pants?” Gregory is… surprisingly on point, there.

“... okay, no, actually, that’s Clyde, he doesn’t like the name brand.” A snort.

He sniffs, then stretches. He’s gotta take a fucking whiz. That’s the downside of chugging two drinks in under fifteen minutes, runs right through and takes the buzz away quicker. He’s done this enough times to know what’s the best way to pace himself. He’s just… preoccupied, is all. “I’m gonna be right back, I gotta go destroy Clyde’s toilet.”

That earns him an eyebrow. “You, sir, are a monster.” Gregory replies.

“I disagree. I think it’s funny.”

Gregory scoffs. “Funny, indeed. Go destroy his bathroom, you degenerate.” Stan laughs. Setting his drink down, he hurries up the stairs and past the horde of highschoolers, past Kyle and Butters, slips into the bathroom, and closes the door. It doesn’t take long to do his business, and when he’s done, he washes his hands, looking at himself in the mirror.

He looks pretty good, now that he’s gotten a better look at his makeup. Holding up pretty well.

Startlingly well, actually. 

Some of the fake fur he plastered onto his face almost looks real, the harder he looks at it. He can see the spots where the glue shows, and he wishes he’d gotten rid of the excess a little better, but he wasn’t ever as good at costuming as he’d liked to have been.

He gives it a tug and recoils. “What the fuck.” It doesn’t come away. He gives it a harder tug, shaking his head. 

His fucking _ears move._ They pin back to the sides of his head, to be more exact, which freaks him out even more. 

“What the fuck?!” Stumbling back from the mirror, he pats at his ears to make sure he’s not _you know, seeing things_ , unable to find the seams where the plush ear starts and the real skin ends. It’s all smushed together, fur on top of skin on top of movement, and he pulls up his gums, storming back over to the mirror to get a good look at his teeth.

This is fucked up. When did this start happening, was it a gradual change, he doesn’t, is he gonna turn into a fucking wolf? Is he gonna start eating people? He can’t be a cannibal, he’s got his whole life ahead of him--

There’s a whine that crawls itself out of his throat and he tries to clamp down on his mouth and shut himself up; he can still feel it there, though, building in intensity. There’s a reaction that he can’t control, it’s an instinct he’s _very unsettled by_ , because last he knew, he was _human_ , so. 

Things are breaking down in his mind as he tries to process through it, connections refusing to be made, and he scrambles back up against the wall, trying to understand what’s going on. Someone knocks on the door. Somehow, he knows that it’s Kyle, even though he can’t really feel what he’s saying in the way he was feeling earlier. They’re words, but they’re not words he knows, right now, worried and mildly annoyed. It smells like Kyle.

How would he know it smells like Kyle? He shouldn’t know that. Stan growls.

There’s another voice, Butters, more worried than annoyed, calm, but he doesn’t want to talk to Butters through the door, he wants to stay _here._ Where he can figure this out on his own time. Where there’s no drumbeat or bass underneath the door waiting for him. It’s too much to try and sort through all at once, and in here, it’s quiet enough, something he can hold on to while trying to understand what’s going on.

“... Stan, are you having a, uh… furry moment?” He hears Kyle speak.

What the fuck does he mean, a furry moment? He made a fursona _once _, but that was in fifth grade. That doesn’t make him a furry. Maybe he’s turning into a werewolf, but it’s complicated, he doesn’t- he’ll figure it out. It’s okay. He tries to speak and just kind of… whines, instead.__

__“I’ll take that as a yes?” There’s Kyle again. His ears twitch. He tries to reply again and just manages another noise in response._ _

__“Kyle, I think he might be, y’know… one’a those otherkin folk.”_ _

__“Shut up, Butters, he’s not a fucking otherkin,” Kyle shoots back._ _

__Butters is quick to save face. “I’m just sayin’! He’s growlin’ and whinin’, I think he might be!”_ _

__“I think you’re drunk and you need to shut the fuck up.” Normally, this conversation would be funny, but he doesn’t have the patience nor the capacity to process it, so it’s just pissing him off. He backs up further towards the toilet. He hears Butters chime back up._ _

__“I’m not drunk! I think you’ve had too many, myself, yes I do. I think I’m right. You know, I was readin’ up the other day about them otherkin folk, how they think they’re actually wolves an’ stuff, and I think it might be a possibility! This could be his way of tellin’ us!”_ _

__“At a fucking Halloween party? While in the goddamn bathroom?”_ _

__“... you make a good point, Kyle. Nevermind. I was bein’ silly.” There’s a little more talking after Butters’ reply, quiet and a little more tender, and he can make out the feeling that they’re hugging, maybe, close enough together to close the distance._ _

__It makes him feel a little bit better about everything, knowing that people are happy. That’s at least a constant._ _

__Letting out another whine, he moves to try and go back a little more and finds that he’s wedged himself firmly behind the toilet and, in the current moment, can’t really… un-stuck himself, so to speak. He wriggles, but that doesn’t end up doing much, and he tries to listen in on what Kyle and Butters are saying outside of the door._ _

__“Y’all want us to go get the guy you came in with? Or Ken’?”_ _

__“I feel like Kenny might just make fun of him, dude, or join in on the weird barking stuff,” Kyle replies. There’s a muffled chuckle from Butters. It’s drowned out by the rising panic in his chest._ _

__“I’ll go get that other guy, then. You comin’ with?” The conversation drops off as they retreat and he wriggles further, arm stuck in-between his side and the toilet, and instead of a grunt, a growl forces itself out of his throat. There’s a constant stream of _it is not safe there is too much you must flee_ and he doesn’t know whether or not deciphering what the fuck that means is worth his time, or if focusing on getting out from the place he’s wedged himself is currently so._ _

__There’s a familiar smell. He pauses._ _

__“Stanley? Are you in there?” Oh, goddamn it._ _

__Something thumps against the wall, a continuous quiet pounding, and he tries to look behind him to identify the source of the sound. It’s his fake tail, which is apparently not so fake anymore, wagging away at the recognition of someone he apparently cares about._ _

__An attempt is made to try and stop the wag, but it’s unsuccessful, and he growls._ _

__“Stanley, did you sneak a _dog_ into the bathroom? What _for?_ ”_ _

__He tries to protest, to make literally any sound other than what he’s managed now, something he can articulate, but all he’s able to get out is a series of garbled, distorted barks, best likened to a dog imitating human speech. He hears Gregory fiddle with the doorknob, searching for a point of entrance, and when the door lock finally clicks and the door opens, his senses are assaulted with the smell and sounds of drunk, adolescent teenagers in varying states of emotion, and the cloying, steadily growing sense that the man now entering the bathroom is both an enemy of the highest degree and the one person he wants desperately to see. It's confusion in the highest form._ _

__"Good _lord._ " _ _

__He growls and bares his teeth, and Gregory takes a step back. He stops growling. "... Fucking _South Park_. Only here would these sorts of shenanigans happen… fine. I- this is a situation of… _improvisation_ ," Gregory steps into the bathroom fully and closes the door, and the growing knot of panic and unease sets aside some. "We can figure this out, but you are _not_ \-- how does this--" _ _

__Gregory is confused. He knows this with the same certainty he feels when he thinks that he is also confused. There's no rational way for him to explain how confused he is, but he can smell it in the invisible waves coming off of the British man, the distressed stance he's taken as he paces around the bathroom, and the way his mouth grows tight around the edges, pursed into each other._ _

__He thinks Gregory should calm down. Stan thinks everybody should just calm down. Struggling, he tries to push himself out of the spot he's wedged himself into behind the toilet, clawing at the wall._ _

__Gregory stills. "Stop that. You are far more likely to damage the drywall and scrape the paint than you are to successfully unwedge yourself with what mess you have managed to get yourself into. Let me just-" Gregory gets too close and again he's hit with that foul, earthy smell, lingering in the back of his throat and nose, and he bares his teeth again, growling. "Do _not_. We both happen to be confused and alarmed and there is no need to get testy."_ _

__Stan pauses. Gregory makes a good point, even if he hates to fucking admit it. Gregory makes a very excellent point._ _

__When Gregory goes to grab him by the armpits and pull, he tries to help, pushing himself against the wall and tile. Finally, he pops free, pushing Gregory down onto the floor with him. He ends up sprawled across the top of his torso, hands over his shoulders, and this close, he can see the brown-red of his eyes clearly._ _

__The red's new. Distantly, he's impressed by his dedication to costuming._ _

__"Can you do me a favor and get off of me? You are crushing my ribcage." His response to that is to lick at his face until he washes away the smell of rot with his own, and Gregory splutters, trying to push him away. He succeeds in pushing Stan to the side and scrambles up, wiping spittle and slime off of his face in disgust; rolling over, Stan thumps his tail against the ground. That's what he gets for coming in here and fouling up the place with his moldy sock smell. That's what he _gets_._ _

__"Thank you. Now, I realize this might be a little haphazardly slapped together, plan wise, and you might not be particularly coherent enough to parse the fine details, so I have simplified it in my mind as much as possible for your comfort and understanding." Standing up, he wobbles, the weight in his knees displaced and holding him upright awkwardly. "The layman's terms is I have a plan, please listen closely."_ _

__He harrumphs, flicking an ear. It's a weird, nearly involuntary action, and he flicks it a few more times to see if he can get the hang of it. Now, if only he can get that to happen with his tail. He's listening, though, and prays that this was expressed to Gregory well enough._ _

__"What we are going to do is play it off as if you had a little too much to drink, and I am taking you home. You do not need to play it up, but you do need to hold it together. That means _do not sniff or lick people._ If that was any indication of how you shall act out there, that needs to be stated now." He growls. " _Do not_ get snappy with me. I am going to smell like dirty dog water for weeks, good Lord…" It is admittedly pretty funny when Gregory flicks excess spit off of his face, and he laughs at it, far more human an expression of emotion he thought himself currently capable of._ _

__"Let us go."_ _

__The moment the door opens, he whines, drawing backwards. Gregory, though, puts an arm underneath his own and straightens him into a standing position; it's awkward and strains his feet, but he puts up with it in favor of vigilance. They walk out into the hallway and he's flooded with scents and sights. It's overwhelming to a painful degree. "Oh, you know how it goes, one too many down the hatch, haha!" The reply is lost in the rest of the vocal medley that is the party surrounding him, but he's able to make out Gregory's replies._ _

__He has to be steered down the stairs and past the staircase before he tries to wander off, but in his defense there's a lot going on, and from where he stands Clyde smells like warm food and trust, so he thinks he's a little justified in getting distracted. Probably. Eventually, though, they reach the door, and he _thinks_ Gregory’s saying goodbye for him. He can’t be entirely sure. There’s a lot of voices he has to pick through to try and identify Gregory’s. It’s cacophonous, a barrage of noise, and he wishes it were easier to listen._ _

__Then they’re outside, and his heart soars._ _

__It smells like rain and dirt, like freedom and ozone, and he tries to jerk free of Gregory’s hold, beckoned by the smell. He’s stopped when he gets yanked back by the arm, and turns to face Gregory, eyes wide. A whine lets loose. “No.” More whines are offered. “Absolutely not. We are going _home_ , Stan.” He reluctantly acquiesced for the moment and lets himself get pulled along, but he resists nearly every step of the way._ _

__He stops to smell the flowers at some point, which Gregory allows, albeit with a sigh of exasperation. They smell both the same and entirely different than what he’d known before, things blooming vibrant and fresh in the back of his throat, and he picks one, gingerly, inspecting it. One wrong hand twitch and he crushes it, then, and frowns._ _

__“... come on. Let’s go.”_ _

__Distantly, he thinks that it’s poetic, almost, in the parts of his mind that are still working; that, despite his gentleness, despite the care he took, he still crushed the flower; that he could do the same with Gregory, or Kyle, or anyone else he cares about if he’s not careful. It makes him sad._ _

__He really needs to get a fucking hold on his emotions right now. Jesus Christ._ _

__Things get hazier by the time he finally manages to make it to wherever Gregory has led him and he pauses, recollecting his thoughts. Being in the moonlight does things to his mind. It demands his focus, steals away all cognizance, it’s reverence basking down into his soul, and he yearns to feel the wind between his hair as it calls it’s siren song. Is this what it’s like for dogs, he wonders, is that why they chase their own shadows, because it reminds them of the moon? Is that why they howl? To sing to that white gold in the sky?_ _

__Someone calls his name and he snaps his attention to the noise, ears pinned back. It smells like rot. Like… vampire, but all he sees is Gregory, and the wind whistling through the trees. “Stan, _please_ , we’re almost home. It is not much, but it will at least keep you from running amok until you are at least done doing whatever the Hell this is, let us go--”_ _

__He’s reached for and he growls._ _

__“Goddamn it, for just _one moment_ can you fucking cooperate?! I understand that I look like some shoddy excuse for a Transylvanian vampire fanboy, our costumes were cheesy, but I am trying to _help_ you! You do not know what is going on, I certainly do not know what is going on, and if I let you out of my sight, God only knows what could happen to you, let alone somebody else! So for just _five seconds_ , Stanley, just _five seconds_ , can you pull yourself together and fucking follow me?! Hm?” He has to take about a minute to mull the words over in his head, then he lets out a puff of frustration, ambling on past Gregory. “Bloody wolf, I should have taken your fucking keys from you when you started acting weird, fuck’s sake…”_ _

__Were he clearer minded, he would have been amused that Gregory got so pissed off he started cursing. He is not, though, and so he pays it no mind, and finally, he pauses in front of a door, sniffing the hardwood carefully. He’s pushed aside momentarily while Gregory fumbles around for his own keys and opens the front door, stomping inside without a care._ _

__It smells like home._ _

__He doesn’t know how to explain it. It’s the smell of incense, of freshly cut grass and stale sweat and distant cigarette smoke at the back of his throat, but it smells like home. Like something close to his heart, a now filled pocket next to him that he didn’t know he had. It’s comfort, frustration and pride all wrapped in a neat bow, and when he prods his head in through the doorway and starts sniffing things, when the door gets closed behind him, he takes a deep breath and takes it in._ _

__The blinds are being closed. That’s shitty. He wants to see the moon and sing to it, why is he being kept from that?_ _

__“Lay down. Just- it is nearly one AM, the party was a bust, we had our fun, we are both tired, come on, now…”_ _

__Stan does not, in fact, lay down. He decides that he wants to sniff everything. In his mind, in the moment, he decides yes, in fact, this is his home, and he wants to know every nook and cranny, every piece that individualizes the room, so when he comes back to it, there won’t be a doubt in his mind that this is his and nothing is out of place. It makes sense to him._ _

__Gregory doesn’t challenge him. Stan doesn’t give it much thought, but by the time morning starts to roll around, by the time he’s curled up on the couch, found himself a comfortable spot, he’s forgotten about wondering what Gregory was up to at all._ _


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ngl i forgot 2 post this and thats my b

There’s no alarm that wakes Stan up, just the morning sunlight peeking through the blinds, and it is with a reluctant mind that he drags himself up off of the couch, stretching. What the fuck _happened_ last night? He can’t remember past a certain point.

Rubbing at his eyes and looking around doesn’t seem to clear things up much, unfortunately. A shame.

The room he’s in is well furnished and looks neatly cleaned, and while there looks to be dust on the top shelves of things, everything is in place. There’s a few books askew on the bookshelves near the hallway, he notices, and an absurd amount of dog fur on the couch, but for the most part, it looks like a pretty normal house.

Kind of an expensive looking house, once he starts to look closer. There’s some real pricey looking art pieces on the walls. He doesn’t recognize the names when he steps closer to take a better look, but anytime an artist sells their artwork, it costs an inordinate amount of money, so he’s going to assume they’re big names.

He sniffs. It smells like dust bunnies, well worn books, and… _overpriced cologne._ No fucking way. He’d recognize that smell anywhere.

He’s in Gregory’s house?

Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he turns the screen on and winces, just a little. His battery is low. Fuck. He’ll have to see if Gregory has a charger he can borrow or something… Turns out, though, someone’s been blowing up his texts the entire morning, and, unlocking the screen, he sighs.

[from: furrylover420]  
[please let me know if youre okay dude seriously]  
[i swear to god if youre stuck like that or something im gonna feel so fucking bad]  
[tricia’s been telling karen that the sixth graders saw a vampire and a werewolf around the park last night]  
[yall gotta be kidding me]  
[granted tricia likes to lie dont get me wrong i love the kid]  
[thats off topic]  
[stan]  
[u there?]

Jeeeesus fucking Christ. He sits back down.

[to: furrylover420]  
[Holy shit kenny you cant just blow up my phone like that]  
[Ill ttyl because my batteries about to die]

[from: furrylover420]  
[goddamn it dont just put the fucking phone down right when i get to talk to you dude this is serious shit]  
[what did you do last night]

[to: furrylover420]  
[Why does it matter holy fucking shit]

[from: furrylover420]  
[because i spit in that fuckng drink and i did it with a very specific purpose dude]  
[i need to know if any weird shit happened]

He remembers… well, that’s a good question.

[to: furrylover420]  
[Let me ask gregory jfc]  
[The weirdest thing ive ever done after a party was pee on a tree dude for rea l cut me some slack]  
[I also dont think that your spit will kill me so idk what youe so worked up over]  
[You good?]

[from: furrylover420]  
[no i am not good stan]  
[go ask boytoy whats up]

[to: furrylover420]  
[HE ISNOT MY BOYTTOY???]  
[I hate you]  
[From the bottom of my hear t]  
[We are FRIENDS i don’t know how many times i h ave tot lel you guys this jesus fucking christ]

[from: furrylover420]  
[okay okay lol whatever keeps the boat level stan]  
[do know that if u two decide to get it on tho nobody gives a fuck]  
[bsides cartman]  
[and thats because cartmans an asshole]

[to: furrylover420]  
[Ashol XD]

[from: furrylover420]  
[ashol XD]  
[dont change the topic tho]  
[yip yip appa]

[to: furrylover420]  
[Yeah yeah]  
[Stop saying were gay tough its pissing me off]  
[For real]

Looking around for the hallway, he shoves his phone back into his pocket and starts walking, trailing one hand across the wall. He feels vaguely out of place, here. It’s a little unsettling, in the class difference kind of way. He should have anticipated Gregory being kind of rich, the guy acts like a snob sometimes, but it’s just… jarring.

Poking his head into a room, he keeps searching. That was a bathroom. Now he knows where the fancy soap smell comes from. Eugh.

Finally, he reaches Gregory’s room. It’s surprisingly bare compared to the rest of the house. There’s a bed and a dresser, of course, and a workspace on the other side of the room. He can see a poster and a sword up on the wall, but beyond that, there’s a lack of comfortability inside that worries him. His own room is messy with clothes and personal items. This is just _necessities._

It takes a few seconds to identify the lump of covers on the bed as Gregory, but once he does, some of that anxiety nestled in his chest loosens and dissipates. “Shit, dude, you had me worried. This place reeks of Boomer energy. Get up, come on.”

There’s no response beyond the minute rise and fall of the blankets as Gregory breathes. Walking over, Stan nudges Gregory to try and get him to wake up. “Seriously, Kenny’s been on my ass all morning asking what we did last night. He thinks we did something together.”

Still no response.

Frowning, he rips the blankets off of Gregory, expecting a complaint. Instead, he’s met with the curled up, sleeping form of Gregory, passed out cold. He pokes at his cheek. _Nothing._

Well, at least now he knows he doesn’t snore. That’s good to know. Probably. “Okay, I see how this is gonna be. Hard way it is.” Grabbing Gregory up off of the bed, he drops him down onto the ground from an acceptable distance. Still nothing indicating that Gregory is awake. “You have _got_ to be fucking kidding me.”

Stan does end up finding a charger and finds somewhere to plug it in, sets his phone down on the surface of the wood that makes up the workspace, and turns back to Gregory.

The guy’s still just… slumped there on the floor, one arm underneath him, sleeping like the dead. He’s not actually dead, right? That’d be absurd. He’s still breathing, so that’s not a likely option. Bending down to Gregory’s level, he shakes him more roughly this time, pursing his lips anxiously. “Come on, seriously, wake up. Get mad or something.” Still no response.

Groaning, he stomps over to the blinds and opens them roughly, turning to look over at Gregory--

Who has decided to get up and shove the covers back over himself the moment the sun touched him. “Well, good morning to you too, asshole.”

There’s a grumbled, sleepy response from underneath the covers. He rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, whatever, dude,” He starts, and grabs his phone, pulling up Kenny’s text bubble. “Kenny wants to know what happened last night.”

Turning back over to Gregory, he’s surprised to find that he’s being glared at from underneath the blanket. Gregory responds, tone short and clipped. “You were a bloody wolf. Can I go to fucking sleep, yet?”

Jesus fucking Christ. “Okay, slow down.”

“Slow down? Hm. Hm, okay.” Gregory sits up, blanket still wrapped around him, covering most of his body. “You. Were. A bloody. _Wolf._ And you have gone and woken me up from a dead fucking sleep because you could not be assed to remember that yourself and tell your friend to get his head out of my _ass_ for five bloody fucking _seconds!_ ”

Stan holds up his hands in defense. “Okay, okay, fuck, dude! You have a coffee maker, right? Will you calm down if I make you coffee and let Kenny know I… was a, uh… was I really a wolf?”

“Yes. You were. And I do not want to be awake.” With a huff, Gregory stands, wobbling. Stan’s first instinct is to reach out and steady him, but his hand is slapped away. 

A frown. “You know what? Fine, you want to be that way, be a dick. Way to, like, ruin the mood. I get it, you’re tired, I broke your favorite vase, you hate me, you don’t get to be like this just because you decided you woke up on the wrong side of the bed, though!”

Gregory pauses, momentarily confused. "You broke my vase?"

Stan groans. "No! That wasn't-- it was a fucking metaphor! Go grab coffee, asshole, wake up and apologize and stop being such a prissy douchebag!"

Stan takes a step back after his outburst, though, because Gregory is stomping towards him, red eyes glaring into his, and since when were Gregory's eyes red? His phone buzzes from where it's charging. He ignores it in favor of pushing up against the wall and shrinking away from Gregory. 

He's _being fucking growled at_ , isn't he? Stan looks away. "Step the fuck off."

"Then _stop being a shit!_ " Jabbing a finger into his chest, Gregory takes a step back and breathes out the rest of said growl with an irritable puff of air. "Either make yourself useful or let me go back to sleep. Make your choice."

"... Hey, uh, actually," Stan hesitates, then backs away from the wall and takes a deep breath, eyes drifting back to Gregory. That's a new development, he thinks. "Open your mouth for me?"

"What-- no! I don't have to do anything for you--" Gregory gets cut off. Angling his face so his chin is tilted upwards, impulsive and quick, he sticks his fingers in past Gregory's mouth to open it and get a better look. Fangs, two sets, one on the bottom jaw and one on the top.

Stan's arm is gripped tight and Gregory bites down. _Hard._ "Mother _fucker!!_ " He jerks his hand back in pain and exclamation, but Gregory doesn't let go as he'd hoped he would. There's a manic gleam in his eyes, now, the taste of blood in his mouth, and Stan finally connects the dots.

That asshole drank the same thing that turned him into a werewolf. So, reasonably, Gregory's a vampire, isn't he? Stan swallows down a whimper and goes very, measurably still. Gregory still does not detach himself from Stan's hand, teeth sunk into his flesh possessively.

"... Can you. Uh. Let go. Just detach there--" Another growl. Gregory closes his eyes, though, so Stan takes that as progress, and tries to pull his hand away. This time he manages to wrench free, but his arm, still gripped, is kept in place. "Thaaaanks. I'm gonna take my arm back now. Okay?"

There's no verbal response, but the intense glare he's met with, coupled with the blood on Gregory's bottom lip, smeared across messily, and the blood still dripping down from his hand, gives him the idea that he's not getting his arm back anytime soon. "Come on, dude. I get it. You're all pissed off and sleepy. You can go back to sleep, yeah? Okay?"

This, at least, manages to reach him, and Gregory looks away in consideration, brows furrowing. After what seems like forever, finally, his arm is let go, and Gregory shuffles back over to the bed, still rumbling deep in his chest. The blankets get curled around him and in a matter of seconds, he's out like a light.

Letting out a breath and tension he wasn't aware he'd been holding in his body, Stan wheezes just slightly. " _Fuck._ "

He's met with silence on Gregory's end. His phone buzzes again. This time, he grabs it, answers the phone clumsily, and yanks it off the charger, stomping towards where he thinks the bathroom is.

"Oh, thank God," Kenny's voice yells out from the tinny speaker of the phone. "You're not fuckin' dead. I wasn't prepared to write a eulogy, dude, fuck."

"You were right." Stan grumbles, nudging open doors with his foot. "He fucking bit my hand, dude! Like-- there are puncture wounds! Hands shouldn't bleed this much, right?"

"Depends on if he's the type a' vampire with decoagulant shit in his fangs. Some have that." Stan stops walking for a second after Kenny makes that remark, then rolls his eyes and continues until finally, he finds a bathroom.

"You are so full of horseshit!" He barks out. Kenny laughs nervously from the other end. "You're lying to me, right?"

"Yeah, no, sorry, ponyboy. Wrap that shit good, pack it if you can. That'll at least stop it from bleeding until you get that shit out of your blood. Is fangs sleeping now?"

" _Yeah_ , thank God. I… honestly, I kind of egged him on, I woke him up." Stan says. Kenny groans from the phone and, setting it on the counter and turning on speakerphone, he starts rummaging around for gauze and antiseptic as Kenny speaks.

"No _shit_ he attacked you, then. You never wake up a vampire during the day. Rookie mistake, Stan."

Stan rolls his eyes and finally unearths a roll of neatly wrapped gauze stuffed inside the medicine cabinet. "Shut up, Kenny, none of us fucking thought vampires were real. It's not as if I had any prior experience with, like, babysitting a vampire- like-- how does that even happen, you know? He never got bit, I never… Wait. Wait, back the fuck up." The phone line goes conspicuously quiet for a moment.

"... Yeeeees, Stanathan?"

Wrapping his hand gently but firmly in gauze, Stan furrows his brows, grumble rumbling lowly in his chest. It's instinctive, but the action is involuntary, responsive to his distress, and he doesn't know how to turn it off. Fuck. "What does you spitting in that drink have to do with us turning out like this? I want an answer, not some shady evasive bullshit like you always give. Seriously."

Kenny sighs from the phone. "You'd forget after I told you, a, and b, that's not really the point here. It'll wear off in, like, a week." Stan groans.

"Fucking weak! You always do this." 

There's a strained chuckle of acquiescence from the phone and Kenny continues after Stan's outburst. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Kenny McCormick, master of fallacy. Call your mom, let her know where you are, and hunker down 'til y'all figure out where pissypants is gonna get his blood. That's my advice."

"That's easy for you to say, your mom doesn't have her head up your ass 24/7." Stan regrets the words the moment they fly out of his mouth. Kenny's parents are a taboo subject.

"Yeah, Stan, and your mom's not fucking shooting up in the bathroom, is she? Do whatever you want. I'm pissed off now. Glad you're not dead." 

"Kenny, wait--" The phone line clicks dead, and, picking up the phone, Stan groans. Great. Way to fucking go, let's go, team. Smart word choice.

Whatever. It's fine, he can- he can deal with this later, he reckons, wait until Kenny's cooled off some, do damage control. He did have a point, though. He should really make sure his mom knows he's olay. Come up with a cover story, too. 

He's not creative, is the problem. Kyle was always the creative one. He can't go to Kyle about this, though, because if he does, Kyle will mother hen, and he could get hurt by Gregory, who's apparently gonna go fucking bloodthirsty when he wakes up. That might just be a Twilight sparkle-vampire thing, though, the more he thinks about it.

He's startled out of his self pity and distress by a sharp knock at the door. It's loud, demanding, and urgent, and the scent of mulch and cigarette smoke drifts past the cracks. He associates the smell with someone, he knows that much, but picking apart the semantics is too frustrating to go through. He can decompartmentalize as he opens the door, he reckons. "Hold the fucking phone, I'm coming!"

" _You prissy little bitch, open ze fucking door!!_ " _Ah._ That'd explain who it is. The shrill, rough voice of Christophe echoes from behind the door, and finally, taking his sweet time with getting to the front room, he opens the door, staring an irate Mole down. Stan crosses his arms.

"Prissy little bitch?" Mole opens his mouth as if to respond, then narrows his eyes, looking Stan over. The scrutiny makes him squirm.

"Since when did you become an angry little dog." It's a statement, Stan realizes, not a question, and it leaves him on edge, hackles raised. He never noticed how gold Mole's eyes really were.

"Since when did you become so invasive?" Stan retorts.

"Easy. I have always been. Move." Mole pushes him aside as he protests and stomps into the living room. He can smell the ozone in the air, like lightning in a storm, static electricity in the room, and it makes him wonder. He's noticed this before, but never on this kind of level. His senses are more finely attuned, of course, that's probably why he's overwhelmed by it now, but it raises more questions for him than it answers.

"Look, if you want Gregory, he's asleep, and it's not a good idea to try and wake him up. Trust me, I already tried." He gets a grunt of acknowledgement in response. Closing the door, Stan watches as Mole stomps into the kitchen. There's the sound of pots being moved around.

His curiosity eventually gets the better of him and he follows. He's just met with normal, boring cooking, though, which leaves him disappointed. Goddamn it. "What're you making?"

"Spaghetti." Mole smacks a can of Pesto down onto the counter from the cupboard. Inspecting the contents, Stan is surprised to find that a lot of said cupboard is filled with junk food, snacks, and canned foods. Easy-make stuff that you don't have to spend spoons making.

"Is this all Gregory's?" He asks. Mole rolls his eyes and pushes past Stan, grabbing a bag of dusty looking garlic cloves.

"Partially mine. My mother kicked me out again and his parents do not visit, so he is letting me stay for a discounted price. I have to 'clean up after myself' and 'try to get good grades'. Fucking mothering whore." Stan snorts.

"That's kind of nice of him, though, like- he lets you stay with him. You sure he doesn't like you or some shit?" There's something akin to regret that flashes across Mole's face for a split second, and Stan barely catches it, but it's replaced by fury in the second it took to show up in the first place.

"Shut the fuck up, cunt, our relationship is none of your business, and secondly, if he did fucking love me then we would not be in _goddamn South Park_ where aliens show up every week, witches shit on porches, and Satan crawls down from Heaven to check on his shitty fucking antichrist like he gives a fuck! Don't patronize me. He's not here because he _likes_ it." Stan rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, smart ass? Then why is he here?" He retorts. Mole slaps spaghetti noodles into a pan and turns on the faucet before replying.

"You."

He pauses, then scoffs. "Bullshit, he's not here for me."

"He has always stayed for you." Mole continues, filling the pot with water. "It has always fucking been for you. So caught up in his infatuation, he cannot see the bigger picture. Pah. What, stop-- you are fucking looking at me weird! Stop! Hand me the garlic!" Mole scowls, holding out his hand, and Stan reluctantly hands the garlic over.

"He's not infatuated with me. That's hogshit." Mole snickers, then starts crushing and chopping the garlic up. The noodles start to boil.

"Stir that. Also, yes, he is. He follows you like a little lost chihuahua, you Americans are so goddamn oblivious. Emotionally constipated pieces of shit." Stan makes a noise of dissent, stirs the noodles, and stews on the information for a minute or two before replying.

"... But I thought he liked you."

Mole pauses, then grabs a wad of meat from the fridge. He slaps it against the counter. "If he liked me, he would have told me. It does not matter if I like him. We are… we are like-- how you and Kyle are close. Brothers. Just, closer." Stan nods. He gets that, at least.

"I just… I'm not, you know- I'm not gay." He chuckles, shrugging.

"There is nothing wrong with choosing both. Just-- whatever. He stays because he loves you and I'm going to force him to eat spaghetti to test something. You remain to make sure he does not _kill_ me."

"Your funeral, dude." Stan replies. Rooting through the fridge, he pulls out a package of lunch meat and sniffs it. "How fucking old even is this?"

"Like I know. Your fault for assuming Gregory takes care of himself. It is not my responsibility to take care of him, therefore I do not." Mole shrugs.

It goes similarly for the rest of the day, surprisingly. There's a tense sort of truce between the two of them, and at some point, his mom calls. Stan's just glad that Mole didn't fuck up his excuse while he was on the phone. As the sun finally starts to set, though, and the sky gets dark, he begins to get antsy.

There's a thunk from further inside the house. Stan looks up from his spot on the couch, immediately alert. Mole, on the other hand, just slides up from his spot, trudging over to the kitchen.

Standing, Stan hesitantly advances towards the hallway. It smells like rot. There's something instinctual inside his chest yelling at him to either run or attack, a fight or flight instinct, a rumbling beast waiting at the ready, and it scares him. He reigns it back and sniffs the air once. "Gregory?"

The bedroom door opens from the end of the hallway and the air grows thicker with that same smell. He takes an impulsive step back.

Gregory slowly, very slowly, walks out, rubbing at his eyes. There's fangs poking out from his lips, sharp and gleaming white, and Stan's hackles raise. "Mmnhggh."

Well, that's… better than bloodlust, he decides. "Yeah?"

" _Coffee._ " Gregory grumbles, and just marches right past him, using his shoulder to steady himself as he passes. The danger passes, and finally, Stan's inner wolf lets out a petulant, imaginary puff of air, settling. He chuckles.

"Yeah? Coffee, huh? Be careful, Mole made, uh--" Stan's interrupted before he can finish.

"You goblins _ruined my kitchen!_ God--" He chokes on the word. Stan has to make an effort not to retort, and Mole, from the kitchen, barks out a laugh. "Shut up! You _cretin_ , what did you do to my kitchen!"

"I made _spaghetti!_ " The bickering between the two continues and Stan pokes his head in through the kitchen doorway, watching the chaos unfold. Gregory is pissed, hands balled into fists, and red eyes glare pointedly at Mole. Said man looks quite pleased with himself as he pulls reheated spaghetti out of the microwave. "Bon appetít, fussyfangs!"

Mole passes Gregory the plate of spaghetti. It takes a second, but after he recognizes the smell, stares down at the plate in frustration, and back up at Mole, the plate gets chucked at him. Mole ducks, cackling, and dashes past Gregory. "I'm gonna kick your ass, Christophe, you think you're funny! You think I enjoy this?! I look like a fucking _cube!_ I'm a charlatan playing games at being mortal! Make yourself useful and get over here!"

Stan blocks Gregory from leaving the kitchen. "Nuh uh. Vampire rights revoked."

"Move. Now." Gregory narrows his eyes. Stan doesn't move. 

"Absolutely not." There's that sense of danger again deep in Stan's core, but he ignores it in favor of continuing the joke. Gregory bares his teeth and hisses. His hackles raise again. "Don't fucking hiss at me, dude, you two can act like manchildren all night and it won't bother me, but you're gonna kill me later if you get blood on your stupid nice carpet."

"Then _you_ are going to have to work." Gregory takes a step closer and he growls, sudden and abrupt, taking a step back in response. There's a sharp noise from the living room, then, and Mole makes himself known again, pointing his shovel at the two of them.

"Ask nicely. That is not how you do things, your bitchiness." Another hiss from Gregory in response. "Think. Would you do this normally? Would you take without asking? How ashamed would you be if you took it too far, Gregory?"

That earns pause from the vampire; hesitating, Gregory groans, rubbing at his eyes again. "Fuck you, Chris, you're not supposed to be the rational one."

"I'm just as surprised as you are, to be fair." Stan quips, and retreats from the doorway.

"Fffff _ffine._ " Gregory spits, then recomposes himself, dusting off his shirt. "Mole. Christophe. My most trusted friend-"

"Hmm, no. I know the question, my blood stays in my veins. You would get high." Gregory scoffs.

"I would not!"

"Heavenly ichor is heavenly ichor, however diluted and full of mortal sins it happens to be." Mole responds, then flops back down on the couch.

"Bloody perceptive eyes…" Pinching the bridge of his nose, Gregory turns to Stan. "Firstly, I apologize for my behaviour. I'm… hangry? Is that the word?"

"Yeah, no, sounds right." Stan stuffs his hands into his pockets and tenses. 

"To my credit, Christophe was deliberately pushing me." Mole raises a finger in agreement to Gregory's statement. "Which he is constantly doing, so I don't particularly know why I'm fucking surprised."

"Unrelated-- do you speak like a jagoff on purpose? Because you sound fine now, is it, like, a posturing thing?" Gregory glares at him and he raises his hands in defense, dropping the question.

"Yes, Stan, I posture. Are you satisfied with that answer?" Stan holds in a snort and Gregory rolls his eyes, then continues. "Can I please just. You already taste like how wet dog smells, it's not particularly pleasant for me."

Stan frowns. "Hey, I do not taste like 'wet dog smells', fuck off, dude." Gregory groans.

"Whatever the case, I am hungry, I can't eat food, and the smell of my kitchen makes me want to vomit profusely, _please._ Work with me, here."

He thinks for a moment. If anything went wrong, Mole could separate them. Then again, he'd have to explain to the guys what was up if they saw bite marks on his neck. Triply thought, if Gregory doesn't eat, either he dies or he snaps, and the second looks more likely, judging by the irritation even now.

"... I get to decide when you stop, and if this leaves permanent marks, I'm kicking your ass." Gregory says a little in posture, either from relief or exasperation, Stan can't tell, and claps a hand on his shoulder firmly.

"Thank you. Do- uh. The--"

"Couch? Fuck it, sure, it's not like I'm getting my blood sucked here by a pompous douchebag." There's a rumble starting back up in his throat and he clamps down his jaw to keep it from escaping. God damn it. Sitting down, Mole scooches away from them and turns the television volume up, direction his attention away. 

Gregory takes a seat next to him, hesitant and anxious. "... I. Am not entirely sure how to--"

"Just bite my neck?" He offers.

"It's not like I have experience with this!" He takes a look at Gregory, exasperated, and finally, he starts to get it. Gregory isn't being pompous. He's just… confused, and scared, it looks like, probably of hurting him.

"Oh. Yeah, uh, right. I mean… if Edward Twilight could do it--"

"God--" Another wince from Gregory. "Just stop talking and lean. Let me-- I'll figure it out." He tilts his neck, complying, and focuses intently on the TV. He tries to, anyways.

Kind of hard when he has Gregory nosing at his neck like a lost fucking puppy.

There's panic fluttering around in his ribcage, steady as a drumbeat, and then finally, _finally_ he feels something sharp and cold sink into his neck. He doesn't mean to wince, but he does, and as suddenly as he was afraid, the tension melts out of his body like simmering butter. It feels almost like his blood is being replaced with fuzz, filled with stuffing, numb and fluffy, and he blinks, trying to refocus.

It doesn't really work, and instead, he slips into a sort of dizzy haze, not entirely unpleasant but growing foggier by the seconds. There's a distantly sharp ache as he feels Gregory detach, or he thinks he does, and someone tilting his head, but all he can manage is a sluggish blink.

Oh. They're talking, aren't they? That's cool. He's being picked up, he thinks, which is nice, and when he feels blankets, feels himself be laid prone, his body takes that as a chance to pass the fuck out, drifting away into a dream he doesn't comprehend.

He wakes up sometime after that and has to wake himself up with a shower. It's a cold shower, and he beats himself up for it, but necessity demands necessity, no matter how dire. Dizzy, dry mouthed and with a headache blooming behind his eyes, he pulls his clothes back on and trudges back into the living room, rubbing at his face.

Gregory's on the couch, still as a statue. He's watching TV, it looks like, but he doesn't seem to be paying attention. When he hears Stan, though, he snaps alert, pushing himself upright. He looks less pale, that's good. More alive.

"I'm so sorry--"

"Hey, no, it's good, I'm just a little confused, uh, you good, dude?" He cuts Gregory off before he can spiral. Gesturing, Gregory sputters.

"Am I good? I could have-- you slept for a day, Stan, I could have killed you, I'm so sorry--"

"Dude, it's _fine._ Honestly. I probably could've used the sleep anyways. Where'd Mole go?" He plops himself down next to Gregory on the couch and stretches. Gregory goes tense again.

"I. He. Uh." He clears his throat. "He had to leave for a job. Are you-- let me check, at least, that you're all right."

Stan rolls his eyes. "Oh my God, fine, you fucking baby." He tilts his neck and displays it. He even does a little dramatic hand flourish. "Boom. See? Just fine."

Carefully, Gregory brushes a finger across the sore spot on his neck, and Stan shivers. He doesn't like what that fucking does to him. He shoves that emotion into the box of repressed things he hates thinking about yet again, then recollects himself, sitting back up. "... I suppose. I can order food, though- shit. Wait. No, it's, ah… six. In the bloody morning." Gregory sighs, rubbing at his face.

"... That's okay. I mean- if you wanna stay awake for a little while, we can order food later? And just." Stan hesitates. "Stay here for a little bit."

Gregory pauses. "... You think so?"

"Yeah. As friends." That earns a chuckle from Gregory, who pulls him close. Stan lets this happen, blames it on blood loss, and curls his legs in close a little. 

"Sorry you grew fangs."

"And I'm sorry you have to grow a tail. Get better soon." With a sigh, Stan closes his eyes again, resting but not asleep, and decides this is okay.

Even if he does still wanna kick Kenny's ass for causing this.


End file.
